


in another life

by apellai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 14:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apellai/pseuds/apellai
Summary: Grantaire smiled, fighting through his tears. “In another life, we all love more easily.”





	in another life

**Author's Note:**

> this is sort of rushed so feel free to point out any mistakes. also it's sad as hell so like be prepared

Just hours ago, barricades arose and his brothers nearly promised their own deaths. A girl had already been killed. Les Amis de l’ABC were singing their last hymn as he followed Grantaire into the wine shop.

Grantaire sat. Enjolras refused.

His hand burned where he had grabbed Grantaire’s arm - the yearning for a lasting touch. One more.

They were silent for a long while. Grantaire spoke without force, a broken man: “Do you still have faith?” The question had been asked plenty enough, but now, Enjolras was unsure of his answer, or of the meaning. “In anything,” Grantaire continued. “God, the people, your revolution, yourself. Do you still believe?”

Enjolras counted bottles of merlot, a familiar swell in his throat telling him tears would soon follow. He looked down at old wooden boards as he said, “I do not know.”

Grantaire huffed, as if unsurprised.

“I want to,” Enjolras said. “I have nothing else to believe in, if not humanity.”

“Humanity is unreliable.”

“As is anything else.”

There was silence among the two again as Grantaire sipped; Enjolras heard how his hands shook against the bottle. He was afraid.

“Grantaire,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“You beckoned me,” and now Enjolras turned to face him, though tears were hardly held back. “You called the men to arms, and I answered.”

“You never had to. You could have gone home. You could live through all of this. Why are you here?”

“Suppose…” Grantaire’s voice wavered, he cleared his throat then continued, “Suppose that all of my-  _ our _ friends are killed tonight.”

Enjolras nodded with a hum.

“Yourself included. And I am home, sleeping.”

“You would be alone.”

“I am alone. I come to the barricade to die with those whom I love, just the same as you, Apollo.”

Enjolras sat in the seat directly in front of Grantaire. “Why do you call me Apollo?”

Grantaire smiled to himself. It was an odd sight - Grantaire with his guard down, no laughter, no quick wit, but his smile under the moon and soft candlelight of the shop - Enjolras felt a familiar urge to caress him.

“I’ll make a deal with you, love,” Grantaire mumbled.

“I am no betting man.”

“But you will take this: Live through tomorrow, and I’ll tell you why I call you Apollo. Fair?”

“Utterly unfair.” Grantaire laughed, this time, and looked at Enjolras with meaning.

Grantaire was never by any means handsome. He was short and plump, with uneven skin and sharp features, with an alcohol habit and a tendency toward sarcasm, and by all means, Enjolras could have hated him.

Under candlelight, there was a subtle allure to the way his lips curve around a bottle, his tired eyes on Enjolras the entire time. Enjolras was tempted to reach out and touch a marred, olive cheek - he did; after all, the best way to rid yourself of temptation is to yield to it. The skin under his palm was dry and cracked, but warm, and Enjolras found himself tracing a bitten lip with his thumb, eyes locked with Grantaire’s.

“You would die for a revolution you do not believe in?”

“I would die for men that I do believe in,” Grantaire said, taking Enjolras’s hand in his own. “I am an animal of passion.”

“You and I are not so different, then,” Enjolras replied, with a squeeze to Grantaire’s palm.

Grantaire kissed his hand. “The only difference between you and me, dear Enjolras, is a broken spirit.”

They sat like that for longer than either expected, hand in hand over the table in the empty wine shop with their deaths waiting outside the door.

Grantaire, again, broke the silence, his voice soft: “Do not let the boy die.”

“If he dies, it will be his own decision.”

Blue eyes met brown, wet and scared and desperate. “Please, Enjolras.” A lip quivered. “He has a life to live.”

“As do we. Schoolboys, they call us. Every bit as children as Gavroche.”

“Thirty is hardly a child.”

“And not yet a man; Grantaire, we all die too early. If Gavroche were to die fighting royal guards, he would be happy. He would not have it any other way,” Enjolras said, then sighed. “I will try. He deserves to see our new world, I know, but you and I both know that he refuses to listen. And if I don’t try to save him, Courfeyrac and Combeferre will. You know they both love children.”

“In another life, they are fathers, I reckon,” Grantaire smiled again, fighting through his tears. “In another life, we all love more easily.”

Enjolras stood and moved closer to Grantaire, now mere breaths away from him. Their fingers intertwined. He yielded to temptation yet again; he allowed himself to kiss Grantaire on the cheek. “In another life…”

“A better life.”

“In another life, maybe, we are lovers.”

“A dream,” Grantaire kissed the corner of Enjolras’s mouth. “And I allow myself to be loved.”

“Would you not allow it, tonight, then?”

Their foreheads were touching, mouths millimeters apart. They shared breath, and for once, Enjolras didn’t loathe the taste of brandy - it felt real, it anchored him in a night where his world was uprooted. Grantaire looked down at, presumably, Enjolras’s lips, as Enjolras stared at the thick, dark lashes framing the chocolatey eyes of the artist; it was indulgent, and Enjolras didn’t mind, only in this moment. “You would love me?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras didn’t speak, but kissed the man; his lips tasted like salt and alcohol and honey, or something similarly sweet. It was chaste, and gentle - nothing like their relationship prior to this night, and yet, it felt right.

When he pulled back, Grantaire drew him in again, with a soft, nearly imperceptible whimper. Rough hands pulled at red fabric, and long, dainty fingers dug into dark, tangled curls.

They kissed for their lives, for what felt like hours(in reality, it was only a few moments). Enjolras’s stomach churned. His cheeks burned, lips tingling, hands shaking - he knew love, he knew arousal, but this burning desire was something new. A new kind of love.

In another life, he thought, he could indulge this more.

He left Grantaire with one more kiss, and back to the barricades.

 

The next time they held each other, it was their last.

_ In another life, _ Enjolras thought, _ we are lovers. _


End file.
